Okay, so it was kind of flattering to be stalked by a six-foot-plus, blond-haired Adonis, who kept giving her puppy dog eyes whenever he caught her looking at him. And maybe Sam was having a little too much fun glaring at him and making sure he didn't catch her alone. But after a little talk with Clara, who had been a little too gleeful in explaining that the tattoo forming on her breast was a Fairy Mark, a brand signifying a contract formed between potential soulmates, Sam had thought the bastard deserved a little comeuppance.
Rik had marked her! Without permission! Like a dog pissing on a tree! No, she didn't get flowers, or chocolates, or even a friend request on Facebook. No, Sam got a tattoo she couldn't even show off! Clara explained that Rik would likewise have a brand, and that neither of them had any control over the mate bonds, at least until they completed some ceremony that cemented it. Forever. And wasn't that some shit?
Granted, apparently the tattoo on her arm was because Bertie had also formed an oath-bond with her, but that one Sam had gotten herself into. Apparently, the Fae—the Sidhe in particular—used Sacred Oaths, reinforced by some kind of uber-glamour that governed the entire supernatural world, as the source of their power. They marked contracts in flesh and ink, sigils and symbols that represented the oaths made. The tattoos lasted as long as the oath held, and enforced the oath with all sorts of mystical mumbo-jumbo that Sam had kind of only half-listened to.
Typically, the marks were hidden beneath glamour, which had begun an entirely new discourse as Clara tried to explain it. She had been trying to track down Bertie and find out what his mark looked like, but he had been avoiding her as much as she had been avoiding Rik.
What made the Sidhe and Fae special was that they were imbued with glamour, a mystical force that permeated everything and connected this world to Otherworlds. It was different than what most Mortals considered magic, and even from what other supernaturals drew upon, in that it was instinctive and seemed to have a consciousness all its own, although one that no being could ever claim to have contacted. It was the force that shrouded supernaturals from the eyes of Mortals, although a force the Fae could manipulate, and one that Sam could apparently actually see, something that not even many Fae could do.
Sam pursed her lips thoughtfully as she regarded her clothes. Tonight, a couple of the girls were going to go into Grand Lake for drinks and dancing, a little rest and relaxation before the Village opened up in the morning for the first vendors and performers to start setting up for the yearly grand opening. Her presence had been requested by both of Rik's sisters. Clara and Gen had both conspired, quite gleefully, with Sam's complete and total avoidance of their brother until he pulled his head out of his ass and actually approached her properly. She wanted to be wooed, dammit!
Hm, maybe I need to kick things into gear, since he's apparently never going to get off that tight, tight ass of his.
Sam had read paranormal romance novels, she knew how this fated mate thing worked. It was probably why things had never worked between her and any of her previous dating partners, or with her fiancé—well, besides the fact he had torn out her heart and stomped all over it during "The Event."
Thankful that Clara had talked her into going clothes shopping the day before, since Sam hadn't packed much beyond the necessities, Sam pulled out the little number she had picked up from a lovely little boutique where the owner knew the Leon sisters by name. A rockabilly-style dress, the jet black fabric was printed with deep red roses, with a red satin faux-underskirt and a big, red satin bow that wrapped around her waist, further emphasizing her cleavage. The length came just below her knees, showing off her legs to their best, since even she could admit, she had rocking calves from all the hiking she did.
She paired the dress with a pair of black kitten pumps that had a small red bow that wrapped around her ankles, and a black half-sweater of the most decadent cashmere she had ever felt. The dress and sweater had been a splurge her bank account could probably have done without, considering she wasn't officially hired yet.
Sam quickly showered, taking extra care to shave her legs and underarms. Using a blow dryer, and the requisite product that she normally avoided like the plague, she styled her hair to emphasize the natural waves. Tying a plain black bandana from her nape to tie in a cute little bow at her crown to keep the length at least semi-tamed, she then pulled out the big guns.
Since she was going to be dancing, Sam went light on the make-up, letting her natural freckles-flag fly. Mascara, eye-liner, and a judicious use of a dark burgundy eyeshadow emphasized her gray eyes, which were further enhanced by her usual black-rimmed glasses. Satisfied with the look, she quickly got dressed and grabbed the little simple black handbag she reserved for formal occasions, forgoing her much beloved, and very battered, black leather backpack purse.
With a touch of rose-scented oil just at her pulse points on her wrists, and behind each ear, Sam was ready to drink, dance, and hopefully give the most unromantic Frenchman in the world some much needed inspiration!
Leave it to me to find the one billionaire French bad boy that doesn't have a florist on speed dial, Sam thought to herself in wry amusement as she headed down to meet the girls. She was riding down to Grand Lake with Gen and Clara, where they were going to introduce her to some of the other local ladies who were regular fixtures at the Village.
When Sam got down to the underground parking garage, she was surprised to see Bertie grinning sheepishly at her as he stood between Gen and Clara, all three dressed to go out on the town. Stalking up to the much, much larger man, she poked him in the chest. Hard.
"You have some 'splainin' to do, He Who Tattoos Women Without Consent!" Sam growled up at him, although her glare was more teasing than serious, because she really did love the damned tattoo. It actually made her regret that she had never given in and gotten one before.
Bertie had the good grace, and sense, to look sincerely apologetic. "You have my deepest regrets, Samantha. I was unaware you would ever notice it, until Clara roundly beat me about the head and shoulders the next day." His expression turned entreating, his voice softening to a bare whisper—well, at least for him—as he said, "It was the first time, in my very, very long existence, that anyone offered friendship without any conditions, after seeing my face. And knowing now that you actually could see my real face, and still didn't hesitate, I cannot regret it. Henceforth, you have my protection, m'lady Samantha."
Bertie was shocked to the core of his being when Sam threw her arms around his waist and hugged him with a surprising strength. He looked helplessly between the two other women, who both seemed to have found something more interesting in the pavement beneath their feet.
"You're a big idiot," Sam said, her voice muffled against his stomach. She pulled back to look up at him, sniffling a bit as he ever-so-gently patted her back with one massive paw. "But thank you!" Suddenly, her face lit up in an expectant grin, "Now show it! I want to see!"
Bertie flushed as both Clara and Gen tried to muffle their laughter at Sam's demand. Rolling his eyes, he chuckled and pulled up the right sleeve of his plain black shirt. His huge forearm was hairy and heavily scarred as he held it for her to inspect.
Tilting her glasses down, Sam's lips parted in an 'O' of surprised delight. There, in exquisite detail, was a massive claymore, the blade battered and partially buried in the ground, tip-first. Yet, growing up from the ground were rose vines, the roses the same flame-kissed hue of her hair, and as they wrapped up around the blade, they gave the impression they were supporting the sword, holding the broken blade together. The tattoo began at his wrist, with the hilt touching his elbow. What was truly the coolest thing ever, though, was that as Sam looked at the tattoo, the vines seemed to sway in a phantom breeze and the roses flickered like little torches. The mark was a living, breathing thing of true beauty and it left Sam a little teary-eyed.
Gently, Bertie said, "I am your blade, m'lady Samantha, whenever you may need one."
Sam ignored the gasps from either side of her as she took Bertie's large hand in both of her own and looked up at him, meeting the gargoyle's storm-gray eyes steadily as she said, "Only if you'll let me be your thorns, because I'll stab a bitch that thinks you aren't the best beastie bestie ever! Besides, you give me cheesecake!" She blinked, suddenly seeing a faint flicker of...something...in Bertie's aura. She tried to trace it, getting the sense it was somehow important, that she had to tell Bertie about it, when Gen's hand landed on Sam's shoulder.
"Okay, girls and boy, if we're going to go grab something to eat before we drink, we should probably head out now," Gen said with a grin. "You two can paint each other's nails and talk about boys once we actually start drinking. Let's get this party started, because mama needs some tequila!"
With her black hair cut in a stylish bob and her large, dark eyes, Gen didn't have the same coloring as either of her siblings, although she did have the same tallness that left Sam feeling like the short, pudgy one more than once. Whereas Clara seemed to embrace being glamorous—pun totally intended—wearing a flowy, frothy concoction of white silk and lace, Gen was far earthier, with a black Stetson, cowgirl shirt, black jeans, and heavily fringed black suede cowgirl boots.
Taking charge as she was wont to do, and which had earned her the nickname of Her Imperial Majesty, Gen wrapped an arm around Sam's shoulder and one around Bertie's waist as she directed them toward the car.
"Bertie's agreed to be our designated driver tonight, make sure we all get home safe and sound," Gen said brightly, the sound of her spurs jangling with every purposeful stride she made. Yes, actual spurs. Silver and studded with rhinestones, Sam noted. Girl had a definite fetish!
Tucking each of them into the car like recalcitrant children, Gen got everyone sorted, much to Clara's giggling amusement and Bertie's good-natured grumbling. With a whoop that echoed through the garage, Gen slapped the car door closed, "Get along, lil'doggies! Yeehaw!" She jogged around to the shotgun seat, because of course.
"Are we sure we should let her have tequila?" Sam stage-whispered to Clara, who had settled in the back next to her.
"Oh yes," Clara said with a laugh and an energetic nod. "Trust me, you definitely don't want to get between Gen and her tequila."
Bertie pulled the Estates' black Land Rover out of the garage, pulling past what looked to be Rik's red one, as they took off. Sam caught the brief glimpse of Rik's profile as they drove by, and someone else in the seat next to him. Must be her competition. With a shrug, Sam settled back to enjoy the drive. Tonight was going to be a blast!